Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 68

Medor's towering black form and the lad's small one stood with hands linked. "I knew him from his cradle days-as I knew his father and his father's father before him. We have seen him at play with his brothers and sisters in the coverts and byways of High Vrazel. Of late, we have welcomed him to feasts and ceremonies. Some of us have been his teachers and ordeal coaches. Others have admonished him when infantile high spirits temporarily distracted him from his duties."

The other children in the hall giggled. The adults clamoured: "Who is he?"

"For six years we have called him by his baby name, Smudger.

But tonight he sets that aside forever, along with the other insignia of infant dependency, and takes on his one, true name."

Medor stepped behind the boy and placed his hands on the small shoulders. "With confidence and love, I call him: SharnAdor! Stand forth and manifest!"

"Here it comes," Ayfa whispered tremulously. "O G.o.ddess, don't let him m.u.f.f it."

Medor drew back, leaving the armoured boy alone at the front of the platform. Sharn-Ador lifted his hands high and began to s.h.i.+ne with a pulsating green light. His body lost its humanoid form and shape-s.h.i.+fted into the aspect of a translucent emerald locust with rainbow-tinted wings and fierce, clas.h.i.+ng mandibles. He grew until he was quite as tall as the ogre behind him.

The crowd roared: "Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal! Slitsal! And then they fell silent as the psychoamplified voice of the boy echoed through the cave.

"I stand before you as a youth. And to thank you for your acclaim, I have the honour to announce a great triumph of our Battle-Company! The hero Betularn of the White Hand and his deputies, Fouletot Blackbreast, Pingol the Horripilant, and Monolokee the Scunnersome have won a signal victory in the Foe's city of Roniah!"

The audience gasped, then broke into a bedlam of shouts and cheers. The illusory gra.s.shopper bounded exuberantly up and down, up and down, barely dodging the captive banners and gilded skulls that dripped from the multicoloured rock formations of the cavern roofs. "We beat 'em! We beat 'em!" the shape-s.h.i.+fted lad chirped. Then he settled back onto the dais, recouped his dignity, and announced: "Not one hour ago, our warriors attacked a superior force of bloodthirsty Tanu knights and destroyed them utterly! And loot-! I mean, the spoils of victory included a whacking big collection of crazy future weapons!" Joyous bellows greeted this, but the child persisted: "Wait, wait, that's not all! We also put the s.n.a.t.c.h on that t.u.r.dling butcher Tony Wayland! Right this minute, Fouletot and Pingol are getting ready to zorch off the brute's arms and legs and make him eat his own barbecued privities!"

Aaaaah! exulted the vengeful minds of the mob.

The child rea.s.sumed his own natural form and bowed modestly. "And I don't mind saying, I don't think anyone ever had such a terrific Nameday as me."

"Slitsal, Sharn-Ador! Slitsal! Slitsal!"

"My baby!" cried Ayfa, going all misty-eyed.

But the King had gripped her arm suddenly. "Great G.o.ddess!" he barked. "Look there!"

The plaudits of the crowd gave way to expressions of stupefaction. Young Sharn-Ador stood transfixed with dismay, staring toward the unoccupied twin thrones at the rear of the dais, before which a patch of scintillating golden fog now coalesced.

In the midst of it stood a small figure in a suit all covered with pockets. A jewelled baldric and powerpack harness was fastened about his shoulders and waist, and he had a great diamond-bladed Sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned to the paralysed child.

"I've got one more present for you, kid."

Sharn, Ayfa, and Medor rushed out onto the platform, weapons raised and minds roaring fury. Serrated obsidian blades smote the golden manikin-only to pa.s.s through thin air and clang upon the flags of the platform, cutting the carpet to ribbons. Aiken stood unharmed.

"Idiots," he said. "I'm a mental projection."

The two monarchs and their Great Captain fell back in confusion. The spectators were mute and motionless. Little SharnAdor piped up: "What present?"

Aiken brandished the Sword.

Oooooh, crooned the monster horde.

Aiken said, "I want Tony Wayland and you want the Sword.

We can do business-but only if Wayland is completely unharmed. You'd better farspeak your flunkies in Roniah and see to it."

King Sharn glowered, but his mind was simultaneously communicating on the intimate mode.

Queen Ayfa said, "It may be true that the murderer Tony Wayland is now in our custody. If so, we will consider turning him over to you in exchange for our sacred Sword."

"And the ten boatloads of weapons you managed to get away with," Aiken demanded, "before the patrols and Lord Neyal's stalwarts got their a.s.ses in gear and chased your gang of sneak thieves across the river."

"We know nothing about any boats or weapons," said Ayfa blandly. "We have heard that Roniah was attacked tonight by Lowlives. But the Firvulag Nation holds to the Armistice, as always."

"So that's the line you're going to take, is it?" Aiken's simulacrum twirled the heavy Sword, filling the mountain hall with dancing prismatic lights.

"That's it, Aik," Sharn said. "You want Wayland, he's yours.

You fly the Sword personally to Betularn tomorrow, the first day of the Truce. He'll meet you on the Northern Track two leagues above Roniah. He's leading a peaceful exploration party in the Hercynian Forest at the moment. That's where Wayland was captured."

"Tony told Katlinel the Darkeyed another story," Aiken said.

"Lowlives are such liars," said the Firvulag King.

Ayfa said, "We only deal on a no-questions-asked basis.

Wayland for the Sword. Take it or leave it."

"Oh, I'll take it," said the little man. "Tomorrow then.

Around sunset. And no tricks, or you'll regret it."

Ayfa's face a.s.sumed an expression of cynical solicitude. "Are you quite sure you feel up to flying all the way from Goriah with that heavy Sword? We wouldn't want you to strain yourself, dear."

"Your concern is touching," Aiken replied earnestly. "But I guess if I can sustain an astral projection through a klom and a half of solid rock, I'll be able to muddle through on the flit. See you all at the Grand Tourney." The golden figure began to s.h.i.+mmer, then abruptly resolidified, strode over to young SharnAdor, and tapped him briefly on each pauldron with the flat of the Sword. "Almost forgot. I hereby dub thee an honorary Tanu knight. Stride boldly, Lord Ador the Wart-Biter! Come and see me sometime, kid-and happy Nameday."

With that, the Tanu King disappeared.

The a.s.sembly of Firvulag all began to shout at once, some in triumph, some in indignation at the brazen behaviour of the regal Foe. The child in armour turned to his parents with a s.h.i.+ning face.

"Father! Mums! Did you see what he did?"

Ayfa and Sharn's eyes met above their son's head. "We saw," said the King bleakly. He knelt down, grasped the child, and exclaimed: "You will repudiate the base accolade! Aiken Drum is the Foe, destined to fall before my sacred Sword in the Nightfall War, and you are a warrior youth, not to be distracted from our glorious Way by idle gestures! Do you understand?

Say that you repudiate him!"

"I do," cried the child. "I do." And he turned and ran from the dais with his visor down to hide his woe.

VEIKKO: Walter! Walter!

WALTER: ... Oh, son. Are you all right? I tried to farspeak you earlier but there was no reply, and I was so worried.

VEIKKO: We had a lot going on around here to keep us busy.

The Famorel Firvulag attacked Camp Bettaforca around 1900 hours. Another bunch of them ambushed the climbing team this morning. One of the climbers was killed but the others are all right. They've rendezvoused with Basil in Camp 1 and plan to start out for the summit at first light.